This chapter includes the two following footnotes. Click on the superscripted
numbers preceding each footnote to navigate to the respective locations
in the text.

1 “Inspection showed two wounds made by
the bullets. The upper one was between the second and third ribs, a
little to the right of the sternum. The use of a probe showed that the
skin had not been penetrated, but that the bullet had probably struck
a button or some object in the clothing which had deflected it. The
lower wound made by the other bullet—a thirty-two calibre—was on a line
drawn from the nipple to the umbilicus. It was about half-way between
these points and about 5cm. to the left of the median line. A probe
showed that this wound extended deeply into the abdominal walls, and
that the direction was somewhat downward and outward.” (From the official
report of the Medical Staff.) [p. 317]

2 Drs. E. J. Janeway and W. W. Johnston
were called into consultation on the last day, but arrived too late
to be of service. [p. 319]

SUNSHINE in the sky above and gladness in the heart
of the President brightened the morning of the 6th day of September,
1901. It was to be a holiday: a visit to Niagara Falls in the forenoon,
a reception to the people in the afternoon. In joyous mood McKinley
passed the hours of the excursion, his nature never more serene.
He looked forward with pleasure to the plans of the afternoon, when
he was to meet the people face to face. He must have realized his
hold upon their affection, for he never sought to avoid such occasions,
though many public men have found a few hours of handshaking a severe
physical ordeal. Many a time had Mr. Cortelyou sought to save his
strength, and avoid possible danger, by suggesting that public receptions
be omitted. To the Secretary and to other close friends, the risk
seemed too great to be ventured. Only a little more than a year
before, a plot to assassinate the President had been discovered.
It was part of a scheme, originating in a group of anarchists in
Paterson, New Jersey, to kill, in regular order, six of the rulers
of the world. The first two on the list had already [313][314]
been murdered, and the President of the United States was the fifth
in turn. Mr. Cortelyou conferred with the Chief of the Secret Service
and the guard was increased. Immediately before the visit to Buffalo
he made every effort to have the President omit the reception. The
only reply was, “Why should I? No one would wish to hurt me.” To
the argument that there would be a crowd of a hundred thousand people
present and that it would be physically impossible to shake hands
with more than a small part of that number, he replied, “Well, they’ll
know that I tried, anyhow.” The Secretary then telegraphed to the
Chief of Police to take every possible precaution, and this was
done.
At 3.30 in the afternoon the party
arrived at the Exposition grounds from Niagara Falls. Mrs. McKinley
was sent in a carriage to the house of Mr. John G. Milburn, president
of the Exposition, while the President, Mr. Cortelyou, and Mr. Milburn
drove to the Temple of Music, where the reception was to be held.
The dense crowd which had assembled gave a mighty cheer of welcome
and the great organ in the temple pealed forth the national anthem
as the party arrived. Passing into the building, the President took
his place at one end of the room. At his left stood Mr. Milburn
and at his right Mr. Cortelyou. Close by were the Secret Service
officers, [314][315] local detectives
and the detail, of a corporal and ten men, from the regular army,
instructed “to keep their eyes open and to watch every man approaching
the President.” The people were permitted to enter from one door
and pass out through another on the opposite side. The President
was smiling pleasantly as he greeted all who passed, bestowing especial
graciousness upon the timid ones and the little children. The procession
was very much like others of its kind. The line was a long one,
and it was not possible for all to be received by the President.
Secretary Cortelyou had just stepped aside to give orders for the
closing of the doors. As the line moved rapidly along and as the
people in close order hurried past the President, there came a young
man, of smooth face and slender figure, whose actions indicated
no sinister purpose, and whose appearance was not greatly different
from that of others except that his right hand appeared to be injured,
for a handkerchief was wrapped about it. This fact, however, was
unnoticed at the moment because he followed so closely the person
ahead of him. As he approached, the President extended his hand;—but
the proffered friendliness was met by two pistol shots which rang
out from the revolver concealed in the seemingly bandaged hand.
Instantly several of the guards seized the assailant and bore him
to the [315][316] ground. As they did
so, one of them, kneeling by the head of the prisoner, glanced upward
and saw the President, still standing, supported by friends, and
gazing with an indescribable look of wonder and reproach. While
he was being helped to a chair the Secret Service men dragged the
prisoner to the center of the temple and there some one struck him
squarely in the face. Seeing this, the spirit of the Master, whom
he had served all his life, came upon the stricken President, and
he cried in a tone of pity, “Don’t let them hurt him.”
The friends now gathered about the
wounded man were fanning him with their hats and watching anxiously
to discern if possible the full extent of his injury. But the President’s
mind was not upon himself. He was thinking of the beloved wife,
who had leaned upon him so many years and whom he had always shielded
so tenderly against the slightest care. As the Secretary bent over
him, he whispered, tremblingly, “My wife—be careful, Cortelyou,
how you tell her—oh, be careful!”
The hall was quickly cleared, and
the crowd was kept back by a cordon of soldiers and policemen, while
the prisoner was placed in a carriage and hurried away. A wave of
anger swept over the multitude; the more daring broke through the
lines and were prevented from seizing the assassin only by the use
[316][317] of bayonets and the determination
of the sergeant in charge, who said he would be compelled to shoot
if they did not let go their hold upon the wheels of the vehicle.
Meanwhile the President waited patiently for the ambulance, not
a word of resentment escaping his lips.
The fatal shots were fired at seven
minutes past four. Eleven minutes later the motor ambulance bearing
the President arrived at the Emergency Hospital on the Exposition
grounds. As he was being carried into the little building he turned
to Mr. Cortelyou and said, “It must have been some poor misguided
fellow.” Dr. Herman Mynter, accompanied by Dr. Eugene Wasdin, of
the United States Marine Hospital Service, was the first surgeon
to arrive. He examined the wounds¹ and at once saw
their serious nature. He informed the President that an immediate
operation would be necessary, and set about making preparations.
Dr. Matthew D. [317][318] Mann, who
had been telephoned for by Mr. Milburn, arrived at 5.10. By agreement
of Mr. Cortelyou, Mr. Milburn, and the physicians who were present,
Dr. Mann was selected to perform the operation, with Dr. Mynter
as his associate, and Dr. Edward Wallace Lee, of St. Louis, and
Dr. John Parmenter, of Buffalo, as assistants. The President gave
his full consent, after an explanation of the necessity of the operation,
saying, “I am in your hands,” and at 5.20 the administration of
ether was commenced.
At such a time as this, the very essence
of the human spirit, which may have shrunk for a lifetime from exposure
to the eyes of men, is likely to assert its presence. From the time
he was ten years old, President McKinley had unreservedly, but without
ostentation, put his trust in God. It was the richest, deepest thought
of his inner soul, and now, as he closed his eyes, realizing that
he was about to sleep, perhaps to wake no more, his lips began to
move and his wan face lighted with a smile. It was the same trust
that now supported him. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,” he
murmured. The surgeons paused. Tears came into the eyes of those
about the table. “For thine is the kingdom, and the power and the
glory, forever, Amen.” With these words he passed into unconsciousness,
while the earnest surgeons sought with all their skill to prolong
his life. [318][319]
Dr. Roswell Park, the Medical Director
of the Exposition, who was absent in Niagara Falls at the time of
the shooting, hastened to Buffalo and arrived just as the operation
was completed. Dr. P. M. Rixey, of the United States Navy, the President’s
family physician, had left the party earlier in the afternoon to
accompany Mrs. McKinley to the Milburn home, but arrived at the
hospital in time to render efficient aid. These two, with Drs. Mann,
Mynter, and Wasdin, made up the medical staff to whom the case was
committed. Drs. Charles McBurney, of New York, and Charles G. Stockton,
of Buffalo, were later called into consultation. During the week
that followed they all worked together with unity of purpose and
unremitting faithfulness, doing all that the best professional skill
of the country could do, and for a time it seemed as though their
efforts must be successful.²
The President bore the operation well.
While he was still under the influence of the ether, he was taken
in the motor ambulance to the home of Mr. Milburn, where he and
Mrs. McKinley were guests and from which he had departed so light-heartedly
in the morning. During the night his pulse improved, he was free
from pain, and on the whole quite comfortable. On Saturday the conditions
continued to be [319][320] satisfactory,
and Mrs. McKinley was permitted to see her husband. She had resolved
to be brave for his sake and the strength of will which she exerted
astonished everybody. The invalid of years became the comforter
and nurse, with the strong hands that had supported her now lying
feebly in her own.
With the passing of the first shock
of the attack, the President resumed his wonted calm. He sent for
his Secretary and when Mr. Cortelyou entered the room, greeted him,
as usual in his friendly way. “It’s mighty lonesome in here,” he
said, with the old familiar smile. Then his mind reverted to the
address which he had intended to make the beginning of a new campaign
for the welfare of his country, and he asked with brightening eyes
and eager look, “How did they like my speech?” It was a sign of
the importance he attached to it. A man who had made thousands of
speeches might be expected to forget an event so common, even if
not lying on a bed of pain. But the Buffalo speech was an epoch-making
occasion to which he had devoted earnest thought for many weeks.
It was to be the test of popular feeling upon a new question of
far-reaching significance. He was anxious to know what the people
would think of his proposition. The Secretary assured him that the
speech was generally regarded as one of the greatest he had ever
made and had attracted the [320][321]
profound attention of the public. “How was it received abroad?”
was the next query. Upon being told that the comment was universally
favorable, a smile of gratification overspread his face as he said,
“Isn’t that good?”
The awful sound of the assassin’s
bullets seemed to reverberate throughout the world. To every American
home the news brought a sense of personal bereavement. To the royal
palaces of Europe it brought a shock of horror and amazement. To
the close personal friends, members of the Cabinet and intimate
associates in official circles, who with a single mind had come
to revere their chief, it brought an anguish of spirit and poignancy
of grief which no words could describe. Senator Hanna, overwhelmed
with sorrow, lost not a moment in boarding the first train from
Cleveland. Colonel Myron T. Herrick, engaged at the moment in preparing
to entertain the President in his Cleveland home, heard the sad
news and started at once for Buffalo. Judge Day rushed to the scene
from Canton, Mr. Fairbanks from Indianapolis, Mr. Dawes and members
of the Cabinet from Washington and Vice-President Roosevelt from
Vermont. The State Department was flooded with cable messages of
anxious inquiry and sincere sympathy from the King of England, the
Emperor of Germany, and the governments of all [321][322]
parts of the world. The Milburn residence on Delaware Avenue seemed
like the headquarters of some military chief. A tent for telegraph
operators was installed on the lawn, and day and night newspaper
correspondents thronged in and out, eager for the slightest ray
of hope which they might send to the anxious world.
For a time the bulletins continued
to gain in hopefulness. On Monday, they said, “More and more satisfactory”;
on Tuesday, “The most comfortable night since the attempt on his
life”; on Wednesday, “Continues to gain.” Senator Hanna received
the word of two surgeons that without doubt the patient was convalescing
and that his recovery was only a question of time. The whole country
became optimistic. Mr. Roosevelt left for his camp in the Adirondacks,
the Cabinet officers went back to Washington, and Senators Hanna
and Fairbanks and Judge Day left for Cleveland to attend a meeting
of the National Encampment of the Grand Army of the Republic. The
President had been expected to hold a reception there on the Thursday
following his visit to Buffalo. In view of the assurances of his
recovery it was determined to change the meeting into a service
of thanksgiving. Thursday morning came and the surgeons announced
that the President had slept well and was feeling better. The time
for peritonitis and sepsis [322][323]
had passed. He seemed able to digest his food. There was no pain,
his spirits were good, his mind clear, his pulse strong and of good
quality, and the temperature low. Dr. McBurney left for New York
confident that the case no longer required his services. The news
was telegraphed to the party in Cleveland and the praise service
was held.
The armory was filled with a great
crowd. Senator Hanna presided and delivered a speech, full of deep
feeling, mingled with hopefulness, and was followed by Judge Day
and Senator Fairbanks. It was an impressive meeting, typical of
the sense of awful foreboding and the longing for a favorable outcome
that pervaded at the moment the homes of the people throughout the
land. That night the little party of friends at the house of Senator
Hanna were awakened by a neighbor who called from the outside that
Mr. Herrick had just learned by telephone from Buffalo that the
President was worse. Instantly a special train was arranged for
and the party left for the Milburn house at 5 A.M. When they arrived
the last ray of hope had all but disappeared. The President’s heart
did not respond to stimulants and he was slowly sinking.
In the afternoon of Friday the President
knew that the time had come for him to bid farewell to the world.
He called the surgeons to his bedside and [323][324]
said, “It is useless, gentlemen, I think we ought to have prayer.”
His eyes were half closed and again the smile of sublime faith in
the future illuminated his features. A solemn silence fell upon
the assembled doctors and nurses and tears could not be restrained.
The dying President moved his lips and again it was the Lord’s Prayer
that welled from his overflowing heart. The twilight descended and
the room grew dark. He asked for his wife and in a moment she was
led into the room, leaning heavily on the arm of Mr. Cortelyou.
The group of friends drew back from the sacred scene as the husband
and lover held the hands, and for the last time, pressed the lips
of her for whom he had so tenderly cared in the days of his strength.
Then, looking up, he said faintly, “Good-bye—Good-bye, all.”
Perhaps he wondered for a moment why
he should be compelled to say “good-bye.” He did not know, but,
as if the question were in his mind and in the minds of those present,
he answered it in his next words,—“It is God’s way. His will, not
ours, be done.”
The room was silent. The President
put his arm around his wife and smiled at her. The family group
and intimate friends about the bedside watched and waited. Then
the lips moved again and the worn face became radiant. The inner
soul was speaking once [324][325] more
and was voiced in the lines of his favorite hymn:—

“Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee,
E’en though it be a cross—”

Fainter and fainter came the words until the whisper
could scarcely be heard. Then a moment of silence. “That has been
my inextinguishable prayer,” he murmured, almost inaudibly.
“It is God’s way.”
In the room below sat a group of Cabinet
officers, Senators, and other friends, anxiously scanning the faces
of the surgeons and nurses who had access to the sick-room, in the
faint hope of discerning some look of encouragement. The hours dragged
wearily; each moment seemed an age. About midnight these friends
were permitted to enter the upper chamber for a farewell look. Senators
Fairbanks and Burrows, when an opportunity came, were asked by a
surgeon to enter. They paused in an ante-chamber while the surgeon
ascertained whether Mrs. McKinley had retired. He soon returned,
saying that she was still beside her husband, and asked them to
tarry a moment longer. Her pathetic voice could be heard and the
President’s moaning mingled with it. The doctor motioned to the
Senators to enter. Mrs. McKinley was standing by the bedside supported
by her [325][326] sister, Mrs. Barber.
As she watched the suffering of her husband, who was still conscious,
she was heard to say, in a low feeble voice, “I want to go too;
I want to go too.” The President lay on his back, his head moving
uneasily from side to side, but he heard the plaintive voice and
answered, “We are all going; we are all going; we are all going.”
Gently the Senators withdrew, and rejoined the group in the parlor,
where every man sat in silence and where many a silent prayer was
breathed.
Mrs. McKinley made no outcry. Her
grief was of the kind that “whispers the o’er-fraught heart and
bids it break.” At last she was led away, and told that her beloved
would soon fall into the sleep of Eternity. From time to time the
President would reach out into the darkness and seem satisfied when
he could grasp the hand of Dr. Rixey. Once he said, “Oh, dear,”
as if in distress. Finally at 2.15 the end came. Those present were
Dr. Rixey, Mrs. Duncan and Miss Helen McKinley, the President’s
sisters, several of his nephews and nieces, Mr. Cortelyou, Mr. Webb
Hayes, Colonel Brown, and Mr. Dawes. The breathing seemed to cease.
Then it was resumed for an instant. At last Dr. Rixey placed a stethoscope
on the patient’s chest, and in a short time arose and said simply,
“The President is dead.” In the parlor below not a sound was heard,
no message came to [326][327] announce
the news, but in some mysterious way all knew that the spirit of
the gentle President had gone to accept a reward higher than any
his countrymen had to offer.
Not since the death of Lincoln had
the anguish of personal grief so penetrated every household of the
nation. Indeed, the sense of loss was even more universal, for in
Lincoln’s time the bitterness of the long war was intense and the
South did not at first realize that they had lost their truest and
most powerful friend. McKinley had done more than any other statesman
to heal the rancor and in no other part of the country was his death
more sincerely mourned than in the Southern States.
The funeral services began on Sunday,
September 15, and continued until the interment on the following
Thursday. A religious service was held at the home of Mr. Milburn,
attended by President Roosevelt, who had arrived the day before
and taken the oath of office, and by members of the Cabinet, relatives,
and personal friends. The body was then taken to the City Hall where
it lay in state until 10.30 P.M. On Monday morning
the funeral train left for Washington and that night the form of
the departed President reposed in the White House. On Tuesday morning,
while the Marine Band, stationed on Pennsylvania Avenue, softly
played the notes of “Nearer, [327][328]
my God, to Thee,” an impressive procession moved to the Capitol,
through a dense multitude, who stood in profound silence, many unable
to restrain their tears. There the funeral services were simple
and beautiful, beginning with the anthem of Cardinal Newman, “Lead,
Kindly Light,” sung by the choir and closing with “Nearer, my God,
to Thee.” The funeral oration was delivered by Bishop Edward G.
Andrews, of the Methodist Episcopal Church, a lifelong friend of
the President. After lying in state in the great rotunda, the body
was taken to Canton, Ohio, where the funeral train arrived at noon
on Wednesday. The formal funeral service was held on Thursday afternoon
in the First Methodist Episcopal Church of which President McKinley
was a member, his pastor, the Reverend C. E. Manchester, preaching
the sermon.
Solemn and impressive as were these
various services, the spontaneous expression of sorrow by 70,000,000
Americans was far more touching and significant. As the funeral
train moved from Buffalo to Washington and thence to Canton, it
passed through avenues of bared heads in every city, town, and village
of its course. The President’s fondness for the old familiar hymn,
“Nearer, my God, to Thee,” had profoundly touched the popular heart.
The village bands, the church organs, the voices of the [328][329]
multitudes, joined in its music, not by prearrangement, but by common
acceptance of it as the deepest expression of their grief. Wherever
the train passed, its strains could be heard, and from Washington
to Canton the song never died out. More remarkable still was the
total cessation of business throughout the country during the moments
when the casket was being carried out of the house at Canton. At
3.30 P.M. the trains, the steamboats, the ferry-boats and tugs in
the harbors, the trolley cars, and even the cabs and trucks in the
streets of all the large cities and towns, paused, while men and
women reverently bowed their heads and stood in silence for five
minutes. Intense stillness settled upon the cities, unbroken save
by the occasional prattling of a child who could not understand,
or by the music of the favorite hymn, sung by some chance gathering
in a public square. This silent demonstration of universal reverence,
more eloquent than any eulogy, came direct from the hearts of the
people and was without precedent in the history of the country and
perhaps of the world.
Both national and international sympathy
found wide expression. Messages of condolence came from every quarter
of the globe. Every foreign newspaper of importance printed sympathetic
and in most instances appreciative editorials. Memorial sermons
[329][330] were preached in churches
of all denominations in every section of the country. Throughout
the British Empire there were demonstrations of sincere respect
for the memory of the American President. King Edward ordered his
court into mourning and commanded that a memorial service be held
in Westminster Abbey, where he was personally represented by the
highest dignitary of his court. In St. Paul’s Cathedral the service
was almost the same as that for Queen Victoria. In the City Temple
an immense throng sang the President’s favorite hymns. The great
Cathedrals of Canterbury, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Dublin, and other
cities, and the churches of all denominations, Catholic and Protestant,
Established Church and Nonconformist, throughout the Kingdom, were
filled with large congregations, generally headed by the mayors
and other officials, and including members of the royal family,
Cabinet Ministers, naval and military officers, and other distinguished
representatives of the Government. The stock exchanges were closed,
flags were displayed at half-mast on the public buildings, and people
in all walks of life went about the streets in the garb of mourning.
Even the drivers of cabs and omnibuses tied little bunches of crape
to their whips. The guns of Gibraltar fired a salute, the British
Embassy at Constantinople held a memorial service, the banks and
[330][331] exchanges of Bombay closed
their doors, and the Dominion of Canada suspended their welcome
to the heir apparent, the Duke of Cornwall and York, who with his
Duchess had just arrived on a visit, in order that all might join
with the Republic in her day of mourning. Never before had the British
Government paid such marked homage to any foreigner.
In Germany the sorrow and friendship
were no less marked. A memorial service was held by imperial command
in Berlin, at which the Emperor was personally represented by Prince
Leopold of Salms-Baruth. Services were also held in Dresden, Munich,
Stuttgart, Cologne, and other cities, at which the highest official
society was present. Emperor William ordered the flags to be displayed
at half-mast on all the ships of the fleet and the Stars and Stripes
to be hoisted at their maintops.
In St. Petersburg, Vienna, Paris,
Brussels, Copenhagen, Rome, and many other European cities similar
honors were given. The Empress Dowager of China published an edict
recognizing the service of friendship which the American President
had rendered to her country. Cuba and Porto Rico joined sincerely
in the general mourning. From the Philippines came a great sheaf
of telegrams, resolutions of public bodies, and newspaper editorials,
some from friends and some from enemies of annex- [331][332]
ation, including Aguinaldo himself, all expressing their deep sorrow
and sense of personal loss. One orator characterized Mr. McKinley
as “a man who was an enemy to the tyranny in the Philippines, and
who, as a ruler, by his knowledge and tact has convinced the people
that the country where the American flag floats is a country where
slavery and tyranny is an impossibility.” A newspaper said: “America
has lost in the person of McKinley the first of her sons, and the
Philippines a friend who would have opened for this country the
doors of life”; and another closed its editorial with the significant
words: “We, the Filipinos, as the best offering, lay upon the tomb
of President McKinley, faith in America, trust in the republican
doctrine.”
The silent reverence of the multitudes,
the spontaneous singing of the favorite hymn, the solemn services
in churches and cathedrals, the eulogies of orators and preachers,
the half-masting of flags, and the condolences of kings and emperors
all meant the same tribute of respect to the memory of a man worthy
to be loved. There is in every human soul a window to the light.
It may be darkened in the daily pursuit of wealth, fame, or pleasure.
It may at times be nearly obscured by sordidness, cynicism, and
despair. Yet there is no heart so mean that the rays from a pure
life will not stream into it and find [332][333]
response. “Men, in all ways,” says Emerson, “are better than they
seem.” A brave act brings plaudits from thousands who would not
themselves be equal to it. True worth is visible even to the worthless.
The world approves noble deeds and lofty character, even though
at times the trend of events seems to indicate the contrary. At
rare intervals, as the result of some momentous happening, the windows
in the souls of men seem to open as by common impulse, and to let
in the clear light of truth and goodness. So it was that the shock
of McKinley’s death seemed to illuminate with the vision of a blameless
life the hidden recesses of human hearts throughout the world. Political
differences and international jealousies were forgotten. In the
manner of his death McKinley had revealed the quality of his life,
and the world saw its truth and beauty.